


Safety Net

by lucymonster



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Forced Prostitution, Gang Rape, Gangbang, HYDRA Trash Compactor Challenge, Homophobic Language, Mirror Universe, Multi, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Public Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 19:36:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3261860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucymonster/pseuds/lucymonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You wanted my protection and you’re getting it," says Bucky. "If you don’t like how I do things, you can find some other sucker to waste his time on you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safety Net

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is entirely the fault of stoatsandwich, who lured me into her [MCU mirrorverse](http://stoatsandwich.tumblr.com/tagged/mirror-universe-mcu) and then let me babble about it with her for hours on end. Many thanks also to Vorvayne for the beta!
> 
> Written for the HYDRA Trash Compactor Challenge prompt: _1930s back alley gangbang on skinny!Steve, Bucky interacts with him afterwards (after witnessing as much or as little of the proceedings as you see fit)._

Steve is in position when Bucky gets home: on his knees just inside the front door, hands folded meekly behind his back, like a fond housewife welcoming home the master of the house.

(This is not, in fact, what Bucky ever meant when he ordered Steve to show him a little damn respect. One day Bucky is going to be forced to admit that he doesn’t actually _want_ Steve like this, all pliant and obedient and unresisting. He’ll admit he likes it better when Steve fights him tooth and nail, and when that happens Steve will have won.)

“Where’s dinner?” Bucky snaps, dumping his jacket and hat in Steve’s arms as he stomps past him into the apartment. Bucky is always in a foul mood after work, ever since his father had him moved from his cushy job in customer liaison to his fractionally less cushy job in records. It’s a waste of his people skills, apparently, and it keeps him cooped up in a back room of the office where he can’t even flirt with the pretty girl at the front desk. But today’s mood is more than the restless frustration that Steve has gotten used to; today there are hard lines of tension around Bucky’s mouth and a grinding anger in the set of his jaw, and Steve has to hang his head lower to hide his smirk. Today, for once in Bucky’s whole damn cushy life, something has actually gone wrong.

“It’s in the oven, keeping warm.” Predictably, Bucky throws himself down at the kitchen table and waits for Steve to serve him; less predictably, he doesn’t so much as crack a smile when Steve dishes out two steaming bowls of rich beef stew. Bucky’s favourite, although of course Steve wouldn’t have made it if he’d known in advance that Bucky would need cheering up. Steve’s cooking has gotten superb since taking up with Bucky. He can afford regular fresh meat now and all the green produce he wants, and Bucky, who is much too important for that kind of dull domestic work, doesn’t even bother to monitor his spending.

Not that Bucky bothers to monitor much spending of any kind. Steve’s willing to bet that money is behind Bucky’s temper tonight; it usually is. He burns through money faster than his snob parents can throw it at him, on late booze-fueled nights with the boys from the office, on ridiculous gifts for his girlfriends, on endless unnecessary medical check-ups for Steve.

They talked about it once; or rather, Steve talked about it while Bucky sipped his nightcap and stared out the window and made a truly heroic show of ignoring Steve’s increasingly determined efforts to throw himself into Bucky’s field of vision. “Honest to god, Buck,” he had said, “I haven’t been properly sick even once this whole year. Just because you can’t cope with a tiny fucking head cold doesn’t mean I can’t.”

Bucky hadn’t risen to the bait. “You moved in here because you couldn’t look after your own damn self,” he’d said. “You wanted my protection and you’re getting it. If you don’t like how I do things, you can find some other sucker to waste his time on you.”

Steve could. The thought is always in the back of his mind, all the more on days like today. But it comes down to this: _leaving_ Bucky makes no sense. It’s an unnecessary risk, an unnecessary hassle. Steve is here because living by himself was hell, and because he needs the leg-up if he’s ever gonna get strong enough to hold his own against the world. Staying is his best shot: it’s easier in here than it is out there, and he can sort out Bucky’s bad behaviour once he’s done needing his help.

That still leaves whatever tonight’s drama is. Steve doesn’t mind watching Bucky drown in his own stupidity, but if they’re running out of money that’s a problem for Steve too. Especially if Bucky has concocted another of his genius plans for getting them out of it. The last one ended with Steve on his knees in a filthy subway bathroom while some lonely old queer rutted his face like a mongrel. “How was work?” Steve ventures, which seems like safer territory than _who’d you lose a bet to this time_ or _I hope she at least put out for your troubles_.

“Fine,” Bucky grunts, and rips a chunk right off Steve’s fresh-baked loaf of bread. He dunks it in his stew with a fierce scowl, and holds it under like he’s trying to drown it.

“That’s good.” Steve watches him closely, and tries to keep the amusement from showing on his face. Even if he does end up in another subway bathroom, it’ll be worth it for whatever’s happened to upset Bucky this much. But Bucky isn’t looking at him - just glowering into his meal, off inside his own head somewhere where Steve can’t see to appreciate the spectacle. “Come on,” he says at last, and arranges his features into what he hopes is a suitably sympathetic expression. “Someone’s pissed you off, haven’t they? Get it off your chest.”

Bucky’s lip curls. “Have it your way, Miss Marple. I was gonna wait until after dinner to tell you. Let you get your meal down in peace.” He rips off another chunk of bread, and dunks it with the same ferocity. “I gotta take you out tonight, okay? I got a debt to pay off, nothing major, and I _told_ ‘em I’d get it through on pay day - not good enough, apparently.” His scowl darkens. “Don’t be a pansy about this, alright, Steve? It’s gonna be a bit rougher than it’s been before. Riley’s getting some of his boys together tonight, and they’re looking for a bit of fun. I let ‘em have you, the debt disappears.”

All of Steve’s amusement goes up in smoke. A cold, hard pit takes shape in his stomach. “I know Riley,” he says, before his brain can remind him how recklessly stupid it is to argue. This isn’t how they _do_ things. Bucky takes him across town when they need the money, to the subway or Times Square or a seedy little corner of Battery Park, where the two of them are just faces in a crowd. It’s better that way, more exclusive, and it keeps their private business away from any nosy neighbours. But Riley - he’s local. He and his boys own half the neighbourhood. They visit the same bank, they shop at the same _grocery_ _store_ …

“I know,” says Bucky irritably. “Why else would he be asking for you by name? And hey -” He frowns, straightening up from his bowl to glare at Steve. “I told him you’ve never done this before, so try not to get too sloppy, alright? They’re expecting fresh meat.”

Steve can taste bile in the back of his mouth. His stomach twists around the next spoonful of his stew, but he forces himself to swallow - if Bucky sees how bad he’s taking this, then he’s in for it worse than ever. “You really wanna be seen with me once half the town’s had a go?” He keeps his voice determinedly light, and swallows again around another mouthful of bile.

Bucky glares. “Guess I’ll have to clean you up real thorough afterwards,” he says, but Steve doesn’t miss the muscle twitching in his jaw. Bucky hates sharing, and he cares a lot about his neighbourhood reputation; if he’s serious about going through with this then he really must be in trouble.

Steve grits his teeth. This is typical: Bucky’s gone and fucked himself over and now he wants Steve to take the fall for it, and the worst part is that Steve can’t even fight it because Bucky _wants_ him to fight it. He’d love that, dragging Steve there bound and battered - winning back some of the face he’s lost by offering Steve up in the first place.

Steve won’t give him the satisfaction. He holds his head high as Bucky marches him out through the neighbourhood to the dive bar Riley’s boys call home. A few patrons turn their heads to stare at him; even the bartender looks him up and down. How many of these men know what he’s here for? How far out has the invitation gone? From the corner, old Moretti the greengrocer gives Steve a friendly nod of greeting. The air in the bar is hard to breathe, clogged with the stench of stale beer and cigarette smoke, and Steve’s throat is threatening to close in on itself. Maybe Moretti is just here for a drink. He comes here, sometimes, when business is down.

He turns away, but he fancies he can feel Moretti’s gaze burning through the back of his skull.

Bucky has had his game face on since they stepped out the door. Now, with half the room looking on, he twists his lips in a trademark smirk and tightens his grip on Steve’s wrist. Gives his arm a sharp little tug, so that Steve stumbles the last few feet to the bar.

“Out back,” says the bartender. His face is a mask; he could be rattling off the price of the day’s special. “Riley’s waiting.”

The air in the alley behind the bar is even worse: rancid piss and the stench of yesterday’s garbage. Steve’s breath is coming in wheezes, and he has never hated his asthma more than he hates it now. Sure enough, there’s Riley waiting for them with a casual smirk that puts Bucky’s to shame. His hair is stiff with Brylcreem, his cologne wafting sickeningly through the acrid air, and he greets Bucky with a too-firm handshake and Steve with an up-and-down leer. “Jimmy Barnes,” he says jovially. “I was half expecting you to be a no-show.”

“I’m a man of my word,” says Bucky, with a warm smile that means he is privately dreaming up a dozen ways to eviscerate Riley. “But hey -” He gives Steve’s arm another little shake. Steve has a brief, vivid image of slamming his knee into Bucky’s balls and making a dash for it. “You finish with him and we’re square, alright? This settles everything.”

“I’m a man of my word,” Riley parrots, and smiles all the wider. “Gotta say, my boys have been looking forward to this. What about you, little Stevie?” He leans forward on his knees as he speaks, lowering his huge face til he’s almost nose to nose with Steve, grinning like a kindly uncle offering a very special treat. “You looking forward to having some fun?”

And this is the point where Steve’s hold on his temper slips. Anger and humiliation are welling up inside him, and Bucky’s hand burns like a firebrand on his wrist. “Sure,” he spits, before his common sense can rein him back in. “Just as soon as I’m finished dealing with you punks.”

For a second he thinks Riley is going to hit him, and god, it’s going to be worth it for the look of rage on Bucky’s face - but then something much, much worse happens. Riley straightens back up and laughs. “I like ‘em feisty. Hey, Willy!” He tilts his head back to yell through the open door of the bar. “Get our boy Jimmy here a drink, will ya? He’s brought us a real prize this time.”

Bucky twists Steve’s wrist, but Steve can tell from his expression that he doesn’t really mean it. Riley’s approval has softened him right up; he’s stopped grinding his teeth, and is staring up at Riley with a kind of wary fascination. Fucking typical. This is Bucky all over: he plays tough, but he always ends up rolling over for the bigger guys. “Gee, Steve, you really oughta learn some manners,” he says, and turns his oily smirk on Riley. “You wanna do the honours, then?”

“You bet I do.” Before Steve can flinch away - before he can bear his teeth and pull back his fist and _smash Bucky’s stupid spineless face in_ \- Riley has him by both arms and is yanking him forward with enough force to throw him off-balance. “Let’s have a look at you then,” he says, and there’s nothing Steve can do: Riley lifts him up like he’s weightless and tosses him stomach-down over an old discarded storage crate by the dumpster. Steve tries to kick him off, tries to get his balance back, but Riley just grabs him by the hair and forces his head down.

With a colossal effort, Steve stops struggling and tries to calm his breathing. He’s doing exactly what he swore he wouldn’t do. Guys like Riley, they get off on the struggle - they _want_ him to fight them. That’s what Bucky’s been telling Steve for years, since the very first day he found him crumpled in an alley with a gang of thugs laying into him. And Bucky - well, he’s cut from the same cloth, so he’d know. It’s hard to remember in the heat of the moment, and harder still to take on board given the source of the advice, but right now principle is less important than making sure Riley doesn’t get one more iota of pleasure from this than he absolutely has to.

It’s a small defiance, and it doesn’t bring much satisfaction. “Good boy,” says Riley, and Steve can hear the smirk in his voice. He’s reaching around to fumble with Steve’s belt, pulling his pants down over his hips, baring his ass to the cold night air. Steve’s face is burning, and god, when this is over, he is going to _slit Bucky’s throat in his sleep_ -

“You stay still, now.” Riley lets go of Steve’s hair. His hands are clammy on Steve’s ass, and they pinch as they spread his cheeks. “I think I see your problem, Jimmy,” he crows, and Steve shudders as a rough finger circles the rim of his exposed hole. “Look at how tight he is - when’s the last time anyone gave it to him, huh? No wonder he’s got such an attitude.”

“He doesn’t give it up easy, I’ll tell you that.” Bucky’s voice carries no hint that he has noticed the implicit insult - he’s smug, indifferent. Later he’s going to _fume_ over every word Riley said to him, rant and rave and plot endless elaborate schemes for revenge; for now, he’s just happy to be on the right side of the big guy in the room. “Think you can fix him?”

“Get the boys out here and we’ll see,” says Riley.

Immobilised with the whole crate blocking his vision, Steve can only guess at who and how many are responsible for the clamour that ensues. The door to the bar swings back and forth on its hinges, and the alley fills up with the sound of footsteps and cheerful chatter. He hears laughter, and whistling; he hears _good to see you, Barnes_ and _how’s business, Frank?_ and _oh my god is that Steve Rogers_? He would give anything to be able to crawl inside the garbage crate and hide, but before he can even start to squirm he hears Riley say, “Here, Willy, come hold him! Something tells me he’s not gonna stay still for long.”

The grim-faced bartender appears in Steve’s narrow field of view, and then disappears again as his heavy hand comes bearing down on the back of Steve’s head. With his cheek pressed hard against the crate, he can see nothing but the rough brick wall next to him. Someone lands a sharp slap on his ass; a jeer goes up from the onlookers. Then Riley’s grip on his hips tightens, tilting him further up and open; he spits, and Steve cringes as saliva trickles down between his cheeks.

“Someone’s gotta open you up for the others,” Riley murmurs, his sour breath close by Steve’s ear. Steve hears him unzip his fly and spit again, and that’s all the warning he gets before Riley lines up his cock with Steve’s hole and forces his way in.

He struggles, because staying still isn’t an option any more - because it _hurts_ , a searing dry pain that sets his teeth on edge, and Riley isn’t giving him any time to adjust. He digs his fingers tightly into Steve’s hips and pushes in further. Bucky has always insisted on slicking Steve up before giving him to clients, but Bucky is busy making small-talk with the crowd and Riley is balls deep with nothing but his own spit to smooth the way. “How’s that?” he says, tongue leaving a slimy trail around the shell of Steve’s ear. “You like that, little Stevie?”

_Fuck you_ , Steve wants to say. What comes out instead is a shapeless, strangled yelp as Riley kicks his legs apart to deepen the angle. He’s rocking back and forth, barely even thrusting yet, and already Steve’s nerves feel raw; his hands scrabble at the rough wood of the crate as he scrunches his eyes closed and tries to block out what’s happening.

Bucky’s short, barking laughter rises above the noise behind him. If only Steve could get free he would rip out Bucky’s jugular with his teeth and leave him to bleed out on the filthy ground. He can already hear the whining that’s going to ensue when they get home - how _humiliating_ it was for him, being forced to share his toy with so many other men. Because of course that’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to Bucky in his whole sheltered life; he has no idea what it feels like to depend on someone else for survival, for protection. And what a fucking great protector he is. One day his piss-weak willpower will get him into trouble that Steve won’t be able to pay for. One day it’s going to be _him_ bent over this crate, biting through his own tongue while Riley ruts him like a feral dog, and when that day comes Steve is going to watch and laugh - and laugh, and _laugh_.

“What are you smiling about, little Stevie?” Riley thrusts harder, and Steve has to bite back a whimper as the impact jars his spine. “Like this, do you? Don’t worry, I’m gonna give it to you real good.” Another thrust; a tiny noise escapes Steve’s throat. “And when I’m done with your tight little slut hole, my boys back here are gonna take over for me. You like that? You like having your hole wrecked?”

He pushes down on the small of Steve’s back; Steve is on his tiptoes, curling back inwards, trying desperately to control the angle. _Fuck_. “I wouldn’t know,” he snarls. “Are you in yet? Or are you just back there for a chat?”

Riley answers by thrusting so hard that Steve’s whole body lurches. “You really are a mouthy one. Plug him up, would ya, Willy?”

Willy fists his hand in Steve’s hair and wrenches his head up. Steve glares up with the full force of his rage, but Willy just curls his lip; he steps in closer, tugging his half-hard dick from his trousers and giving it a rough stroke. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what happens if you bite,” he says. twisting his hand in Steve’s hair for emphasis. “You open up nicely, now.”

Steve clenches his jaw, purses his lips tight; he’s not sure what he’s hoping to achieve, exactly, and all that happens is that Willy calmly pinches his nose and cuts off his airflow. Riley’s thrusts are forcing the air from Steve’s lungs, and when he opens his mouth to gasp for air Willy pushes his cock in and pulls Steve down onto it to the hilt.

He flails, struggling for breath, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes; Willy holds him in place until black spots flash before his eyes. It’s almost a relief when he finally pulls back and starts to fuck Steve’s mouth. He sucks in air around it like a drowning man and the alley stench floods his senses, mingles with the sweat-smell of Willy’s cock and the rising burn of bile in his throat until his stomach is in hard knots. All he can do is focus on his breathing, focus on keeping down the contents of his stomach. Steve’s got iron control over his gag reflex - nothing like Bucky, who can hardly swallow a pill without retching. Bucky wouldn’t know what to do with a cock down his throat - he’d be gagging, convulsing, eyes streaming with involuntary tears. He’d be whimpering for mercy, and all that would come out would be an awful string of noises like a choking animal -

“You like that, do ya? You like a good dick in your mouth? I can feel your little slut hole begging for more.” Steve’s blood is rushing in his ears but he can’t block out Riley’s gloating voice, can’t block out the chorus of snickering from the group behind him. “That’s right, little fairy, you just keep clenching - oh yeah -” Riley stiffens behind him and comes with a groan; it dribbles down Steve’s ass when he pulls out, runs down onto his balls, his thighs. It feels _disgusting_ ; he tries to press his thighs together to stop it, but Riley kicks them back apart. “Alright, boys. Who’s up next?”

“I’ll have a go.” The voice is familiar, but Steve can’t put a name to it - it could be _anyone_. The butcher, the guy at the bank, the landlord’s son. He doesn’t waste time, just steps forward and unzips and shoves it straight in. Steve’s hole is slick with Riley’s cum but this guy’s _bigger_. Steve writhes and scrambles forward, instinct taking over as the pain shoots up his spine, and Willy grabs him by the head and starts fucking his mouth in earnest. This time Steve does gag, and for a single panic-stricken moment he feels his windpipe closing and his throat convulsing and he _can’t breathe_ , and still nobody is stopping. He’s stuck between them like a pig on a roasting spit and his vision is blotted black again and all he can hear is Bucky’s coarse laughter from somewhere distant behind him -

Willy pulls back sharply, and all Steve can do is gasp like a fish as oxygen comes flooding back. Willy’s cum splatters his eyes, nose, mouth, hair; he gags and spits bile, and Willy shoves him away with a grunt of disgust.

“Move up, Willy, we all want our turn.” Another familiar voice; Steve cranes his head back to look, but the man behind him grabs him by the neck and forces him back down. He can only see a pair of legs, in nondescript black trousers; can only see another anonymous dick being pulled out, stuffed unceremoniously into his mouth. This guy hasn’t even bothered to fucking wash. Steve sputters in disgust, and the guy tugs his hair violently as punishment, hard enough to tear out a clump by the roots. Steve’s shout of pain is completely muffled by his girth, lips stretched wide, jaw already spasming as the ache spreads down his neck.

Killing Bucky for this would be too kind. One day, he is going to feel what Steve is feeling now. One day his world is going to fall apart, his control is going to shatter; one day Steve is not going to need him anymore, and when that happens he is going to bend Bucky over in the middle of town, in the middle of the fucking park on a busy summer Sunday, and split him open for the whole damn world to watch. Bucky who has never taken a dick in his life, who once broke three of Steve’s ribs for letting his hand stray too far back during a blowjob. He’ll scream like a whore while half the neighbourhood takes their turn, and Steve will sit back and sip his scotch and watch while they fuck him til he’s broken and bleeding and swollen so bad that they can’t fit even one more cock inside him. He won’t walk for _weeks_ when it’s over, and all the friends and family who used to respect him will look at him and curl their lips in disgust.

It feels like it stretches on forever. Steve’s hole is gaping open by the time the second guy pulls out; he can feel his muscles fluttering around empty space, and the next guy to step up makes a disgusted noise when his cock slides right in without resistance. “Little slut’s wrecked already,” he complains. “What did you do to him, Finley?”

Steve went to school with a guy called Finley; one time he shoved Steve’s head down a toilet. “Hey, I can’t help what the good Lord gave me,” says Finley, and now that he’s heard the name Steve’s _sure_ that’s his voice. Finley’s a copper now, working a beat not far from Bucky’s apartment, and sometimes Steve runs into him at the late-night diner where he stops for coffee. “Give him a good slap, that’ll tighten him up.”

Steve’s braced for a hand, but he gets a belt; three hard, biting lashes across his ass, and with each one he lurches forward and feels the edge of the crate dig harder into his stomach. Tears prick in the corners of his eyes. “You want more of that?” growls the guy behind him. “Or are you gonna clench up that little hole for me?” He shoves his cock back in, and this time Steve contracts around it involuntarily, his muscles tense and tight with pain. “Yeah, that’s the way. You keep it like that, just how I like it.”

There’s another guy, and then another, and another; one after the other they step up to use Steve’s hole, use his mouth, until he’s losing track of how many have had him. Cum is dribbling down his ass and his chin, sticking in his hair and all over his back. Nobody’s letting him get his head up to see what’s happening; he doesn’t know how long the line behind him is or how many people are hanging around to watch. He can hear them in the background, chatting and jeering like a crowd at a sports match, and every now and then Bucky’s voice rises up above the rest, cheerful and boisterous. Steve’s insides are so battered that the pain is starting to darken his vision, and time is moving in strange jumps and flashes: two men are making small talk above him while he pants for breath around the dick in his mouth; now his mouth is empty, and someone is holding his hips up at an angle that makes his pelvis feel like breaking. Someone is panting just out of his range of vision; another man is laughing and pulling his hair, twisting his arms, grinding his face down into the rough wooden crate. His hole is _burning_. Every thrust feels like the stab of a hot poker. Every now and then someone gives him another lash with the belt, and he can feel the welts swelling up on his back and thighs. His throat is raw and bruised and closing up and he’s dreaming of his inhaler, and god, that’s what he’ll do, he’ll take his inhaler and ram it _right up Bucky’s ass_ once he’s got him bent over in front of the world, fuck his filthy used-up hole with it, then make lick it clean before he takes it back. There is nothing he’s not going to do to Bucky when this is over, nothing that’s too far, nothing that’s too humiliating. He won’t stop until Bucky’s gaping so wide open that he’ll take a month to close back up, and it won’t matter how much Bucky begs him to stop.

And oh, he’ll beg. Small whimpers are starting to rise uncontrollably from Steve’s battered throat, and his jaw is seizing up so hard that it hurts almost more than the cock slamming into the back of his mouth. Whoever’s got him now likes it rough, holding the back of Steve’s neck for leverage as he thrusts, slapping his cheeks, wrenching at his hair. The guy behind him is moving out of sync so that Steve is jolted back and forth with each forceful thrust. His blood is rushing loud in his ears, drowning out the noise of the onlookers. Time has slowed to a crawl and the only thing Steve knows anymore is searing, pounding humiliation.

And it goes on, and on, and _on_.

Through the thick haze of pain, it takes him several moments to register when the pounding finally stops. His hole is empty and gaping wide open, jaw hanging loose on its hinges, head slumped forwards over the edge of the crate. Sticky semen is dripping slowly down his legs. He has no idea how many people have just used him, or how many people are still there looking on. He makes an abortive effort to close his legs. It’s too much effort. His whole body is weak and shaking - and at this point, why bother? They’ve all seen everything they want to see already.

His head spins. Someone pinches his ass and chuckles, playful, like they’re flirting with a diner waitress. “Look at this, fellas. Hope you weren’t planning on using him any time soon, Barnes. You could house a small family in here.” Several fingers thrust roughly into Steve’s hole, flicking and stretching.

“Serves him right, the mouthy little punk.” The sound of Bucky’s voice makes Steve feel sick; the world lurches around him, and all of a sudden it takes every inch of his willpower not to throw up. “How’s that feel, Stevie? You want any more before we pack you up?”

_No. No, god, no._ Steve would rather die than say the words aloud; his insides are burning, cheeks flaming hot with humiliation, and he’s dimly aware that his face is wet with more than just semen. “Pah,” says another voice - is that Flannegan from next door? Steve can’t tell anymore - “Who wants to stick their dick in that mess? Wouldn’t even feel a thing, I bet. You’d just slip right back out.”

“We should get him cleaned up,” says someone else. “You got any more of that scotch left, Willy?”

“I ain’t feeding my best scotch to a dirty little slut like that,” says Willy scornfully.

“Here, there’s some grog left in this bottle,” says another voice. A loud guffaw goes around the group, and before Steve can put two and two together there’s a cold trickle of liquid splashing down onto his ass. The alcoholic burn takes about a split second to register; a shout of pain is torn from Steve’s throat, and the burning fluid is trickling inside his wrecked hole and his skin is on fire from the inside out -

Those fingers are thrusting in again, holding him wide open for the last thin drizzle of liquor. Steve bites his tongue until he tastes blood, but the burn of it inside him is blotting out every other pain, tearing at his inflamed skin, setting him alight. “What’s wrong, princess?” says a gloating voice in his ear. “Come on, tighten up that hole if you don’t like it. You can’t, can you? God, what a mess.”

A rough hand fists in his hair and pulls his head back. Steve’s vision is swimming; faces loom into view, distorted and out of focus. After all this time trying to identify his assailants by the sound of their voice, Steve can’t bear to look. He scrunches his eyes closed. “Look at his face,” crows Flannegan - and it’s definitely Flannegan, Steve’s sure of it now. Flannegan who waves at him every morning when he steps out to collect the mail, who has called over dozens of times for a cup of sugar or a quick chat with Bucky over coffee. “What are you crying about, little Stevie? Don’t like your bath?” He shoves Steve’s head back down, and Steve can’t muster the energy to resist anymore. He just lies there, draped over the crate with his bare gaping ass in the air and the excruciating burn of the liquor searing his insides clean.

He loses track of what happens for a while. The crowd are chattering amongst themselves, but the voices are getting thinner and quieter; eventually, they die off altogether. And then it’s just Bucky, pulling Steve up off the crate, tugging his pants back up over his cum-smeared ass. “I told you not to get sloppy,” he says, and anger flares somewhere inside Steve but the feeling is distant, irrelevant. Everything hurts. “What, you want to sleep here, do you? You better not think I’m gonna carry you home.”

It’s an empty threat; this is what Bucky _lives_ for, seeing Steve too weak and needy to refuse his help. He leans heavily on Bucky as he staggers out towards the street, too exhausted to care anymore about denying him his fun. He gets as far as the end of the alley before he staggers; his legs buckle, and Bucky catches him around the middle to keep him from falling. Steve doubles over and retches.

“Careful,” says Bucky. Out of view of Riley’s boys, the smugness is gone from his voice; he sounds strange, and unusually quiet, but Steve is too exhausted to care what’s going on in his head. “Hey, Steve, I’ll tell you what. You make it all the way home without throwing up on my shoes and you’re off the hook, alright? No more work. I’ll clean you up, let you get some sleep.”

Steve says nothing. Bile is mingling with the taste of semen in his mouth; his stomach heaves again. “It’s your lucky day tomorrow,” Bucky goes on, and moves his supporting grip to Steve’s shoulders instead; with the pressure gone from his stomach, the retching eases up a little. “I’ll be out at work all day, and there’s plenty of leftovers for when I get home, so I don’t care if you spend the whole day slacking off. And I won’t even fuck you tomorrow night, either.”

“Right.” Words feel like sandpaper against Steve’s sore throat; he swallows heavily, and promptly regrets it. He looks up at Bucky, and sees a tight crease forming between his eyebrows. “Thanks.” He is too exhausted to do anything else.

“Wouldn’t want your used-up hole right now anyway,” says Bucky, and looks away. He carefully shifts his grip on Steve’s shoulders, steadying him on his feet. “Come on, let’s get moving. You stink like a goddamn whorehouse.”

About a hundred metres further down the street, Bucky gives in and scoops Steve up off the sidewalk. Steve hooks an arm around his neck and rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder and lets himself be carried back home.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me here on [tumblr](http://lucymonster.tumblr.com/)!


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